


my talents include...

by knlalla



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hotels, M/M, Needy Dan Howell, Touring, insp by dan's recent tweet, lbr he's always needy tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 17:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14815701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knlalla/pseuds/knlalla
Summary: Dan's whiny because Phil won't pay him any attention, so he sends out apassive-aggressive tweetshoutout to @daliensgrandads on tumblr for bugging me to write this (instead of my current wip whoops)





	my talents include...

I cannot _believe_ Phil.

We’ve been here for, what, a day? And Phil’s already nose-deep in editing our next video. Can’t he just...enjoy things, just once? We’ve been working our asses off for the past _month_ , and now we’ve got two free days, and Phil just wants to work.

“To get ahead of schedule!” He’d said, as if that would make it alright. I’m glaring daggers at the back of his head from where I’m sat on the bed, one of the two in the room, because the lady at the front desk said a king wasn’t available and we’re Two Long Bois but a queen wouldn’t be the smallest bed we’ve ever had to share, not by a long shot.

And small though it is, it’d sure be a _hell_ of a lot better if _someone_ would get his ass off the computer and come _cuddle me_.

But for all my staring, Phil’s ass hasn’t moved from his chair at the desk, and the only noise in the room is the sporadic click of the mouse he’d brought along because he’s an old man and can’t manage to edit using a trackpad whilst we’re traveling.

I know he’s got his headphones on, but I clear my throat anyway. _Pay attention to me! We have all of tomorrow to worry about editing._ I’m tempted to whine it aloud at him, but it’s not like he’d hear. I frown at his shoulders, slumped as he leans in to get a better view of the screen. _Maybe we should’ve brought a bigger monitor, for his old man eyes._

I stifle a chuckle, although I realize I don’t really need to. Then I blow out a breath, heavy and annoyed even though he’s not listening and he wouldn’t know, and grab my phone. As if it’ll somehow hold a different internet than the laptop burning a hole through my sweatpants.

After pulling up at least seven different apps - none of which have any new or exciting information - and glancing over at Phil between each one, I pull up twitter. _If my boyfriend refuses to pay me any attention, I’ll just have to whine to the internet about it._ My tried and true plan for whenever I’m feeling particularly passive aggressive.

I type at least twelve iterations of the tweet before settling on something that reads more neutrally: “ _my talents include always thinking about people more than they think about me_ ”.

 _There, Phil, now over eight million people can indirectly shame you for ignoring me._ I toss my phone aside and resume my frowning at the back of Phil’s head.

When I hear the buzz of his phone sat beside him at the desk, I pointedly fix my gaze on my laptop instead, on the blank google tab currently waiting for a nonexistent search. To be fair, Phil’s deep in editing mode, so I didn’t actually expect him to _read_ my tweet just yet. I’d maybe been hoping to wallow a bit more, at least. But he glances over, unlocks his phone. Stares for a minute.

“Dan?” His voice sets my heart racing, which is silly because I’ve heard it a thousand times and I’ve _definitely_ heard it in far more exhilarating contexts than this. I pretend not to have noticed, pretend not to see him spin in the chair and push the headset off to hang around his neck. “ _Dan_?” He says it a bit louder.

“Hm?” Nonchalance has absolutely never been my forte, but I’m going for it now with every ounce of theatre skills I’ve ever had. I pull my eyes away from the uneventful google logo to find Phil frowning just slightly. 

“Something wrong?” He asks, but it’s not really a question, not after nine years; he already knows. For a good thirty seconds, I debate carrying on with the act, brows lifting up my forehead in a silent question of ‘ _hm sorry not sure what you mean, everything’s great_ ’, but his lips twist in the way that says he’s not believing it.

“You’re _editing_ ,” I finally announce as though it’s _news_ and he hasn’t been doing it for the past several hours since we got sorted in our hotel room. His whole face scrunches up, and I’m about to connect the dots for him - he’s never been the best at deciphering my vagueness, but he tries, and it means the world - when he spins back around in the chair and goes right back to tapping at the keyboard.

I’m suddenly sorely tempted to chuck my fucking laptop at him.

But that anger hardly lasts, because he’s set his headphones aside and turned back around to stand on unsteady legs that have fallen asleep from being sat in the same position for too long; I have exactly five seconds to throw my laptop to the side before I’m full-on attacked with a Phil hug.

And _fuck_ but I can’t stay mad with his arms wrapped around me and his chest pressing me back into the pillows at the most uncomfortable angle. I don’t even really _want_ to be mad anymore, and I’m pretty sure I’ve entirely forgotten what had me so frustrated in the first place. 

We’re here, together, touring the whole damn world with each other. What’s there to be mad about?

“I’m sorry,” Phil mumbles into my shoulder, and my arms wrap around his back now that I’ve recovered from the semi-tackle. I huff out a breath, about as close to a laugh as I can come with him crushing my lungs, but I’d take that over properly breathing any day.

“Don’t be, I’m just needy,” I press a kiss into his hair, no longer damp from his earlier shower but still smelling of strawberries, and he nuzzles further into my neck. _Really, I was annoyed?_ The thought suddenly seems absurd.

“But I haven’t paid you any attention in…” he trails off.

“Like four hours,” I supply, and he groans into my neck. I’m smiling, though, long past any annoyance. Especially now, with his breaths on my skin and his warm weight on top of me. “You didn’t mean it, just got focused.” He always has, when there’s a project to be done, a video to edit; even if it’s not needing to be finished _right now_ , he wants it finished, wants the pressure off. I understand.

Instead of speaking, we both stay silent, just breathing for awhile. My fingers find a spot on his back to trace nonsensical patterns, he occupies himself with pressing lazy kisses to my neck and shoulder. It’s nothing new, nothing different, and that’s why it makes my heart light and full at the same time: the normalcy. The comfort. The companionship. 

“Thanks,” I say after some time has passed. I’m not sure how long, given I’ve lost sight of my phone and laptop, but it doesn’t really matter. Phil finally shifts, moves off me to settle beside me on the bed. Somehow - and I’ve never quite mastered this myself, but he always manages it - he’s able to completely change positions _and_ get the duvet up around us without ever losing contact with me. I’m not sure if it’s something he does for his sake or for mine, but it’s become one of my favorite things, one little quirk and a source of solace I can always count on.

“Sleep?” Phil’s voice has turned groggy, and I wonder if he didn’t doze off in the short span of time we spent pressed together. A smile curls the edge of my lips.

“Yeah.” 

We end up falling asleep like that, curled around each other in a bed that’s a bit too small and not nearly as comfy as the one back home, but it doesn’t really matter. Never has. I get to be his home and he gets to be mine, and that’s always been more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, lovelies! If you'd like, feel free to give it a cheeky [reblog on tumblr](https://knlalla.tumblr.com/post/174452565952/my-talents-include)


End file.
